


nor made me feel so sweet

by grim_lupine



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I suppose Peril could lend you a hand,” Napoleon says, and there’s the usual, teasing note in his voice, like a boy who can never resist the thrill of putting his fingers through the cage of a tiger, beckoning it closer, closer, and closer yet. </p>
<p>“Yes,” says Gaby. “I suppose he could hold you down for me.” </p>
<p>There’s a silence, during which Gaby imagines she can hear Illya swallow. Napoleon’s eyes flick toward her in a quick, admiring glance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nor made me feel so sweet

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=529536#cmt529536) on the kinkmeme: OT3, pegging; Gaby pegging Napoleon, with Illya lending a helping... hand.
> 
> Unsurprisingly, I am unable to resist the lure of pegging fic. Thanks to pageleaf, as always, for putting up with me and looking this over for me!

Gaby’s birthday happens to fall between missions this year, something she doesn’t think about much until Napoleon comes back to the apartment they’ve been set up in with his briefcase in hand and a sly, cat-got-the-cream gleam in his eye. 

“And where have you been?” Gaby asks, putting her chin in one hand and arching one brow up at him. There are several things she appreciates about Napoleon (though the subset of those which she will admit to is significantly smaller); one of those is the opportunity to play, to posture, to flutter her eyelashes at Napoleon and get a perfectly curved smirk in return and be taken seriously all the while. She loves Illya dearly, but there is very little aptitude or inclination for artifice in him. 

Napoleon smiles at Gaby, and sets his briefcase down on the bed. It opens with a little _click_ and he pulls out an innocuous brown paper bag and hands it to her. “Happy birthday,” he says brightly; behind him, Illya’s head comes up from the chessboard he’s been studying, though he tries to hide his interest immediately after. 

Gaby peers inside the bag.

“...Thank you?” she says after a moment, looking back up at Napoleon with one eyebrow flying upward again. “Although I already have you two at hand and the very nice one I bought for myself, so I don’t really — ”

“Oh, it’s not for you,” Napoleon says, sitting down on the bed and leaning back a little on his elbows, perfectly aware of how it tightens the fabric of his shirt across his chest and draws Illya’s eyes like a magnet, of course. The beautiful, vain idiot, Gaby thinks fondly, and allows him the satisfaction of seeing her eyes linger for an instant. “Or at least,” Napoleon continues, “it’s for you, but not like that. And it’s only half the gift anyway. Here.” 

He reaches carelessly into his briefcase again and draws out — 

Gaby narrows her eyes, tips her head slightly until the criss-cross of leather Napoleon’s clutching nearly resolves itself into something she can make sense of. Napoleon helpfully fills in the gaps for her, complete with illustrative gestures. There’s the dull sound of a chess piece dropping to the floor. 

“Well,” Gaby says at last, “that sounds more like a gift for you, if you ask me.” Her voice is smooth only through the utmost, stubborn effort; unfortunately she can do nothing about the slightly too-rapid rise and fall of her chest, and Napoleon’s thorough understanding of her body by now. 

“I won’t lie, the thought had crossed my mind,” Napoleon says, and then sweeps a look of such heat down Gaby’s body that she feels her skin tingling in its wake. “I promise you’ll enjoy yourself, though.” 

“Oh, will I?” Gaby says archly, and then as if reading each other’s minds, they turn in unison to look at Illya — Illya, whose cheeks and ears have flushed a deep pink, and meets their eyes like he’d rather be shot than admit to either his arousal or his embarrassment.

So nothing new, then. 

“I suppose Peril could lend you a hand,” Napoleon says, and there’s the usual, teasing note in his voice, like a boy who can never resist the thrill of putting his fingers through the cage of a tiger, beckoning it closer, closer, and closer yet. 

“Yes,” says Gaby. “I suppose he could hold you down for me.” 

There’s a silence, during which Gaby imagines she can hear Illya swallow. Napoleon’s eyes flick toward her in a quick, admiring glance. 

“After dinner,” Gaby says decisively. “It’s my birthday, and I want a nice dinner.” And she slips on her jacket and leaves the apartment without looking behind her, knowing they will follow. 

*

They have dinner at a nice Italian place, and Gaby enjoys her food, but if you asked her later to recount the details of what she had, or what the restaurant looked like, or anything other than the lush spread of Illya’s eyelashes or the wet redness of Napoleon’s mouth, she’d be at a loss. 

Illya makes stilted conversation, but loses his words every time Gaby runs her foot up his shin. He rouses himself long enough to snap back when Napoleon provokes him in an undertone, slyly needling him about whether he’d even known it was an option for Gaby to take him like that, whether he’d thought about — 

“Of course I knew,” Illya hisses, supremely unconvincing; the way he looks at Gaby and Napoleon, with such hunger backlighting the uncertain glower on his face, makes Gaby catch her breath. 

Napoleon leans in close until his lips brush Gaby’s ear faintly, and whispers, looking at Illya’s steadily reddening face all the while, “You know, for _his_ birthday — ”

“Yes, thank you,” Gaby replies under her breath, and runs her foot up Illya’s leg again just to watch him look away and drink his water with faintly trembling hands. “I had already thought of that.” 

“Brilliant girl,” Napoleon murmurs, and kisses her ear as he goes. 

They make it through the rest of dinner somehow; and perhaps as penance for his deliberate needling, the minute they are back in the apartment, Napoleon backs Illya up against the front door and kisses the fight right out of him. It isn’t easy — Illya never goes down easy — but Gaby knows from experience and observation how much sincerity Napoleon can pack into those kisses, and eventually Illya has his fingers curled around Napoleon’s upper arms and his head tipped back against the door, giving himself up. 

Gaby hums to herself quietly, watching the two of them as she unzips herself and steps out of her dress, putting it away neatly. Off comes the jewelry, down comes her hair. The underclothes and heels she leaves on. 

Illya catches sight of her over Napoleon’s shoulder, and something in the tremor of his body makes Napoleon turn his head to look as well, and their faces — oh, she will never, never get tired of being looked at like that. 

Eventually Napoleon stops eyeing her like a safe he’d like to crack open, and turns back to Illya. He takes one of Illya’s large hands and closes it around his wrist; when he fits his other wrist into the loose curve of Illya’s free hand, it closes tight as well, instinctively.

“As per the lady’s wishes,” Napoleon says innocently, and Illya snarls something under his breath and drags Napoleon to the bed by the wrists he has caught tight. Even when practically thrown upon the bed, Napoleon manages to land in an artful sprawl, all rumpled shirt and spread legs and a sly tip to his mouth. 

Illya squeezes one of his thighs as he straightens back up, and turns to Gaby. His eyes are piercing and wide, fringed by his ridiculously beautiful lashes; Gaby stands with her hands on her hips, in her heels and her panties, and feels ten feet tall. It doesn’t exactly hurt when Illya goes smoothly to his knees before her, pulling one of her feet up onto his thigh so he can remove her shoe for her. His fingers are gentle and capable as they unbuckle the strap, and he kisses her ankle as he slides the shoe off. 

“Oh,” Gaby says quietly, nonsensically; but when Illya takes her other foot in hand to remove the other shoe, she glances over at the bed and sees that Napoleon looks no better watching Illya on his knees, one hand clutching the fabric of his own shirt as if to keep from reaching out to touch. 

Illya rises to his feet and catches Gaby up in a kiss, holding her up on her toes as she nips at his mouth, already kissed red from Napoleon. His fingers catch the waistband of her panties, and she pulls away and says against his mouth, “I’m fairly naked already, why don’t the two of you catch up?” 

“Yes, why don’t you come help me out here before I start feeling neglected?” Napoleon says from the bed, with an unconvincing pout; Gaby rolls her eyes, but purses her lips at him in a little kiss anyway. 

“You need help remembering how clothes work, Cowboy?” Illya says dryly, but he goes over to assist anyway. Getting Napoleon’s clothes off seems to involve a lot of wandering hands and rolling around and kissing in the opposite of efficiency, but watching them, Gaby isn’t exactly complaining. Napoleon returns the favor, until he’s sliding Illya’s underwear all the way off with a showy twist of his back. He returns to drop a kiss on Illya’s belly, and then the curve of his half-hard cock, says, “Mmmm, remind me to come back to this later.”

“You like it too much to forget,” Illya says, gravel-voiced, rubbing a thumb behind the curve of Napoleon’s ear. 

“True,” Napoleon agrees, as cheerfully unashamed as he ever is. He pats Illya’s thigh and gets to his feet, turns and swings Gaby into his arms so he can kiss the corner of her mouth as he asks her, “Enjoying yourself so far?” 

“Not as much as I was promised I would, yet,” Gaby says, and then realizes her bra is open and off, dangling from one wrist; Napoleon’s clever thief hands, she thinks, and can’t help herself, starts to laugh against Napoleon’s mouth for his audacity and the joy of him. He pulls back and kisses the tip of her nose, looks at her with a clear fondness that puts a spark in her belly. 

“Luckily for you, I never break a promise to people I like,” he says, and goes off to retrieve the harness from wherever he put it before they went to dinner while Gaby skims out of her panties herself. 

“You told that duke in France you liked him, and I think I remember you promising him lot of things that didn’t turn out well for him,” Illya says, but he says it quietly enough that Napoleon can pretend not to have heard, and he meets Gaby’s eyes and she knows he understands what she does — that the only lie in what Napoleon said was using the word _like_ for them, instead of another, more fitting one.

Napoleon comes back with harness in one hand and the dildo in the other. He helps Gaby strap herself in with practiced, careful hands, checking the fit and tightening where it’s too loose; and it’s Illya taking her shoes off all over again, being touched with competence and tenderness both. It makes Gaby’s heart pound, a shiver running down her body that tightens her nipples, prickles her skin. 

When he’s done, Napoleon stands behind Gaby, looking down her body, and he murmurs in her ear, “Oh, I _am_ looking forward to this.”

Gaby is looking too; the sight of the fake cock between her thighs is surreal, briefly vertiginous, and absurdly all she can think for a moment is that she’s glad Napoleon didn’t pick out a flesh-colored one. Then she adjusts her weight, feels it bob, thinks about what she’s going to be doing, and the breath swoops right out of her. Gaby’s seen Napoleon get fucked by Illya enough times by now to know how much he likes taking it, and now _she_ gets to give it to him. The thought is intoxicating. 

“So am I,” Gaby replies, reaching down to fist her hand around the dildo and stroke upward. 

There’s a slight, strangled noise from the bed; when Gaby looks up she sees Illya biting his lip. His eyes are dark, and there is color rising in his cheeks. 

Gaby smiles at him, a slow, predatory smile that feels right on her lips. Behind her, Napoleon drops a kiss in the curve of her shoulder and then heads over to drape himself on the bed, facedown. He angles his head so he can wink at her over his shoulder; he knows exactly how good the curve of his back looks like that. 

Illya huffs, but apparently can’t resist running his hand down the curve of Napoleon’s spine. Then he moves around to sit near Napoleon’s head and drags him up so he can pillow his head on Illya’s thigh, comfortably. 

“Why, thank you,” Napoleon says, the words muffled due to the fact that he appears to be mouthing a path up Illya’s thigh. 

“Don’t mention it,” Illya says. “Really.” His hand twitches toward the ruffled mess of Napoleon’s hair. 

“You were right, by the way — no reminder necessary,” Napoleon says, and inches forward more to get his mouth on Illya’s cock. Illya’s eyes fly toward Gaby; his mouth parts softly, and his breathing is very, very even. 

“You can keep his mouth busy,” Gaby says. “I know how this part goes.” 

Gaby keeps her fingernails short. It’s far more practical when elbows-deep in the innards of a car, or cleaning a gun.

It’s also necessary right now, as she teases one slick finger into Napoleon and watches him wriggle himself back onto it, hungry for it. One finger becomes two, and she fucks him with those for a long time, crooks them into him until he can only pant against Illya’s cock, wordless. Illya’s lips are pressed into a tight, bloodless line, like he’s afraid of what he’ll let out if he opens his mouth. 

Napoleon takes four of her fingers beautifully, until he finally breaks and lets Illya’s cock out of his mouth and says meaningfully, “If you’re going to go any further with that I wouldn’t exactly be opposed at a _later_ date.”

“It’s my birthday, remember?” Gaby says reasonably, and shifts her fingers inside him as she thumbs firmly behind his balls. 

“Yes, so why don’t you _fuck me_ with the birthday gift I so nicely bought you,” Napoleon says, turning his head to glare at her over his shoulder, looking a little wild around the eyes; and it’s the slight cracking of his teasing, perpetually sure charm that decides Gaby, really. It’s the mechanic in her — she never can resist the urge to take apart the things she loves. 

Pushing into Napoleon slowly is a strange, strange feeling — it’s not her own flesh, so she has no real gauge of her angle or her speed except for the way Napoleon twitches under her, the way she can see him clench around the dildo. She works into him increment by increment, until her hips are seated up against his, her hands squeezing the sharp jut of his hipbones tight. 

“Oh,” Gaby says, more an exhale than a word, and rolls her hips just to get some pressure on her clit from the base of the dildo — the way he looks under her, oh, it makes her whole body throb with want, makes her go liquid and aching between her legs. At her movement, Napoleon digs his fingers into Illya’s thigh, knuckles going white. Illya sucks in a shaky breath, his cock hard and wet at the tip, brushing the side of Napoleon’s face. 

As much as she’d like to tease Napoleon further, for all the times he’s done the same to them, for how gorgeous he looks like this, there’s an implicit understanding between the three of them that the time for banter and games has passed. There’s too much urgency rising in the dense air around them, each one’s hunger feeding off the others’. 

When Gaby pulls back and slides back in, it’s easier this time, and it only takes her a few thrusts before she finds the angle that has Napoleon rolling his hips back to meet her, the hair curling at the nape of his neck dampening with sweat. He’s quiet, but his breathing is ragged; Illya says his name in a low rumble, runs his fingers through Napoleon’s hair and tugs his head back down until Illya can push his cock into Napoleon’s mouth. 

They take him from both ends like that, stillness on Illya’s side as he lets Napoleon bob his mouth with the rhythm and force of Gaby fucking him thoroughly. Her thighs and hips burn with exertion, but it’s good; it makes her dig her nails into Napoleon’s hips, and she thinks about leaving bruises there, like she’s seen from Illya’s huge fingers, like she’s traced with her tongue before. She stops for a moment at the thought, seated deep within Napoleon and leaning forward a little, her breasts crushed against his back; she bites the back of his neck softly, sucks a tender bruise further down where he can hide it later, so it’s just for them. 

Napoleon hums a little at the nip of her teeth, his mouth still stuffed full of Illya’s cock, and Illya makes a sharp noise and grabs a fistful of Napoleon’s hair, tells him, “If you don’t want it in your mouth you should — ”

Napoleon slaps Illya’s hip, makes a clear _go on_ gesture, and Gaby watches Illya’s face crumple up and his hips jerk as he comes in Napoleon’s mouth, holding Napoleon’s head in place. 

After, Napoleon surfaces for air and swallows showily. Illya reaches out to touch his mouth and then meets Gaby’s eyes, and in a moment of sudden, clear unity, they shift — Gaby pulls out of Napoleon all the way and Illya flips him over onto his back, tugging him up until he’s cradled in the V of Illya’s open legs, held down. 

“What — ” Napoleon starts to say, a startled note in his voice he’d never admit to later; he breaks off when Illya reaches down and curls his hands around Napoleon’s wrists, drawing them up so he can hold them together. 

Gaby snakes her way between Napoleon’s thighs, arching her eyebrows down at him. “Hello there,” he murmurs, the easy charm back in the glint of his eye, the dimple in his cheek, the slow curve of his smile. 

“Hello,” Gaby replies, and Illya lets go of Napoleon’s wrists briefly to help angle him so Gaby can push back in, in, in. 

The other way she could get deeper, but this — this makes Gaby’s pulse pound in her ears, to watch Napoleon’s face as she fucks him, the twitch of his mouth and the fluttering of his lashes he was hiding before between Illya’s thighs.

“Thank you for my birthday gift,” Gaby says sweetly, reaching down to brush her thumb over the sticky head of Napoleon’s cock. “That was very nice of you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Napoleon says breathlessly, watching her lick her thumb clean with half-lidded eyes. “It was my pleasure.” 

Illya lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and Gaby hides her own smile against Napoleon’s mouth as she strains up to kiss him, deep and wet, warming her down to her toes. 

Between their bodies, Gaby reaches down and fists Napoleon’s cock, stroking him in a steady rhythm that makes him twist under her. Gaby pulls back so she can see it, the way Napoleon’s face goes slack, the way he tugs at Illya’s iron grasp around his wrists and says Illya’s name when he can’t get free, like he’s thankful for it. 

He even comes prettily — more prettily than any other man Gaby’s ever seen. She waits for him to return to himself before she sucks one of her fingers clean, just to hear him curse and then say, “ _Gaby_ ,” in a half-laugh, half-plea. 

Gaby smiles. She wipes the rest of her hand off on the sheets and then carefully, carefully eases out of Napoleon. Her hands are clumsy when she unbuckles the harness, but from the sprawl of Napoleon’s body she doesn’t think he’d be much more help. When everything’s off, she cups herself with one hand just to feel how wet she is, lets her eyes flutter shut. She could make herself come in thirty seconds with how long she’s been waiting, but she feels a hand touch her wrist and opens her eyes to see Illya beckoning her closer.

“Put her — yes, there,” Napoleon says after he rolls away from Illya slightly, and Illya pulls Gaby into the same position Napoleon was in earlier — back to Illya’s front, cradled between Illya’s thighs. 

“Thank you, I would be lost without your help,” Illya says sarcastically, and Napoleon grins and says, “Well, that first time — ”

“If someone’s fingers aren’t in me in the next two seconds — ” Gaby interrupts him to say, and then swallows the rest of her words when Illya curls two into her smoothly, his other hand resting on her stomach. 

Napoleon moves until he’s on his front, resting his cheek against Gaby’s thigh. “If you have any other requests,” he says, smirking up at her, “it _is_ your birthday. For another hour, at least.” 

An hour, Gaby thinks, as Napoleon angles his head up to lick around Illya’s fingers, is time she can definitely put to good use, here. 

As for whatever she can’t get to — well. There will always be more birthdays.


End file.
